Author : Russell Bert Waters

It’s not easy being a psychopath.

I don’t care about others, but I also don’t care about myself.

I’ve never felt a connection, and I’ve always been curious about what would happen if I did certain things to people or animals.

So, I did all of those things, and so many more.

Normal people trample one another during Black Friday sales.

I behead the homeless.

I feel I’m doing society a favor.

I’m not sure what the Black Friday people think they’re doing.

I joined the military fresh out of high school, I felt that I would be an effective killing machine.

I was.

Did I save a few of my fellow soldiers? Yep.

Did I do it because I cared about them? Nope.

I was captured once, and I enjoyed it very much; inasmuch as I’m able to enjoy anything.

The enemy soldiers would often play Russian Roulette.

I was incredibly curious, and I couldn’t care less about the men who died.

I was the only captive grinning from ear to ear.

One enemy soldier, with soulless eyes, recognized something in me that he knew, deep down, about himself.

We sort of clicked.

They never allowed me to participate, but this guy got it.

He got me.

He always made sure I had a good view.

When we finally escaped, I locked eyes with him while slowly gutting him with his own knife.

He didn’t wince or cry out.

We had an understanding.

He didn’t care about himself, and he enjoyed spending his last few moments with a kindred spirit.

That is, if he were capable of truly enjoying anything.

Fast forward to today, I’m in a medium-sized village in Ireland, to which I have traced a solid portion of my ancestry.

The year is 1673, and one of the men in this village will eventually marry one of the women in this village. They will have six or seven children together.

I know, I said “fast forward to today” and yet I’m a good three hundred and some years before today.

But, it’s still today, good people.

Wrap your minds around that for a second.

This morning, I awoke in 2017, and, later this same day, here I am in 1673, a long distance from my home.


Well, I’ll be home again, in 2017, and it will still be today.

Kinda hurts your head, doesn’t it?


Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Also, as I said before, I don’t care about your head, your comfort, or you.

Last year I murdered this babbling homeless man, and, before he gurgled on his own frothy blood, he mentioned that his backpack was vitally important.

Turns out he was right.

After tossing his head into a culvert, I found a device, and a journal, in his bag.

The device is what I have in my satchel, today, even as we speak.

It’s why I’m able to be here, in my ancestral home.

Once a week I come here, pick a random stranger, and end his existence.

Then I hit the [return] button on the device.

One day I’ll hit that button, and I’ll just disappear as though I’d never existed.

It’s the ultimate game of Russian Roulette.

I can almost feel the thrill.

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